Philosopher's Stone
by BrightEyed-Jill
Summary: Bob had always been an unremarkable man. Until Elle.


Bob was an unremarkable man.

He never had the handsome, military-office efficacy of Arthur Petrelli, the cold imperiousness of Kaito Nakamura, or the easy magnetism of Adam Monroe. To describe Bob, people used words like "unassuming," "undistinguished," and "bland." He was the type of man who invited being thrown up against walls, even by laughingstock geneticists.

In his work with the Company, Bob's mundanity worked to his advantage. Certain positions, like Regional Sales Manager at Primatech Paper, required Bob's particular ability to make no impression whatsoever. Coworkers and acquaintances took to calling him "good old Bob" because, of course, the phrase meant nothing at all, and there was no more precise expression to describe Bob's utter lack of distinction.

That was the trouble with alchemy, Bob knew. He could change the world around him, transforming elements to his will, but he could never change himself. He could never make himself remarkable. He could never transcend the crushing weight of his mediocrity. Until Elle.

Bob wasn't able to hold Elle until she was three days old. The doctors said she had an erratic heartbeat: something to do with the heart's electrical signals. They ran some tests and kept her under observation, but they never found a cause. Years later Bob would look back on those days and think that even then there were signs his little girl was special, was ready to push herself for the sake of her abilities.

When they put her in Bob's arms for the first time, she cried and cried, waving her tiny arms around. This little creature would not be ordinary. Bob realized that right away. People would notice her, would respect her. Maybe even fear her. He would make Elle the best. Neither the Petrelli brats nor little Hiro showed any glimmer of greatness in childhood, but his daughter would be the exception.

Victoria Pratt warned him that two parents with the genetic marker for abilities would not necessarily pass on the traits to their offspring. He ignored her. Such platitudes were all well and good for the Petrellis, whose precious little Nathan never so much as hovered during his childhood, but his daughter was capable of more. He'd make sure of it.

When Elle was in first grade, Bob got a call from the principal telling him that something was wrong with his daughter. During recess she had been left in charge of the class pet, a Dutch rabbit named Bandit. At the end of recess, Bandit was dead: singed and reeking in his cage.

Elle was sitting outside the principal's office, sniffling pathetically when Bob arrived. "I didn't do anything," she wailed. "I just brushed him."

"Tough little girls don't cry," Bob told her. She flinched at the familiar admonition, and scrubbed her tears away. "That's better."

Instead of talking to the principal, he took Elle to look at the rabbit. Its fur was charred in places, and the whole classroom smelled of cooked meat. Bob looked thoughtfully from the dead pet to his daughter, and thought about the fire at Elle's grandmother's house last year. Bob started to feel the beginnings of pride.

The next morning, instead of taking Elle to wait for the bus, Bob drove her to Hartsdale.

When they walked into the facility together, Thompson raised an eyebrow. "Is it take your daughter to work day?" he asked.

"She's manifesting abilities." Bob passed her little hand into Thompson's. "Take her down to the lab and get started."

"Daddy." Elle turned her wide blue eyes up to Bob. "Where are you going?"

"I have work to do. It's time for you to be a big girl." He smiled, chest swelling with pride when Elle straightened up to her full height and put on a serious expression, ready to be brave. "Good girl," he told her. To Thompson, he said, "She's all yours."

When Elle was twelve, she told Bob she hated him. "I wish you were dead," she screamed at him from behind the glass. "All of you, and your stupid shrinks! I hate you!"

Bob walked away, fuming. He had invested a great deal of energy in making Elle into a useful tool for the Company. Despite all his efforts, she continued to disappoint. It took time, he knew, to transmute an element. The process was supposed to take centuries, but someone with his talent should be able to speed up the process, to purify and strengthen whatever he touched. Elle was not the best material to work with, but his reputation depended on making her into something worthwhile. He would not allow her to fail. He would find another way to refine her.

"Wait! Wait wait wait!" she shouted after him. "Don't leave me here!"

Bob stepped back up to the observation window and regarded his daughter coolly. "You know what happens when you lose control of your powers. You've lived here for four years; you should understand the rules."

"I didn't mean to," she said softly.

"Then you need to be strong enough to control yourself. What did I tell you about losing?"

"I'm sorry Daddy." She hung her head.

"The work I do is very important," Bob said. "I only have time for winners."

"I know Daddy. I said I was sorry!"

Bob shook his head wearily. Sometime Elle was so weak that he despaired of her ever living up to her potential. "I'll be back in a few days. If you're ready to be tough by then, I'll give you another chance."

"I'll be ready," she said. Bob gave a satisfied nod at the spark in her eyes. His little girl was finally starting to temper.

When Elle was twenty-two, she told Bob no for the first time.

"I can't," she said.

Bob looked up from his desk. He couldn't have heard correctly. "What?"

"I can't do it." She immediately ducked her head, ready for a rebuke. At least she knew her behavior was weak.

"Elle, it's your job. I thought you were tougher than this."

"I'm not. I try to be tough, but…" She scrunched up her face in frustration. A normal girl would have cried, and Bob silently congratulated himself that Elle was better than that. "I just want to do something else for a change."

"Go to your room," Bob said.

"I'm not twelve any more!"

"Do you want me to call the guards?"

Elle glared at him. "No, Daddy." She went.

Bob picked up the phone and dialed out. "Noah. How's Claire? Uh huh. I need the Haitian in Hartsdale. Put him on the next flight."

Bob sat beside the Haitian at Elle's bedside, and together they sorted through his daughter's memories like a deck of cards, discarding the ones that she didn't need, the ones that might make her weak.

Take the memory of bringing her here for testing when she was seven.

Leave the memory of breaking her leg by falling off her bike.

Take the memory of riding ponies at her fifth birthday party.

Leave the memory of her grandmother's burnt corpse laying the wreckage of her house.

Take the memory of screaming hate at her father.

Leave the memory of electrocuting her psychiatrist.

Take the memory of her mother singing her to sleep as a child.

Leave the memory of pinning Adam Monroe to his bed, grinding her body into his.

And so on.

When she woke up, she would still be his daughter. She'd still be reckless, sadistic, and imperfect. But she would be stronger. She'd be better. She'd be closer to what Bob hoped for her all along.

If Bob could transmute iron into steel and lead into gold, then he could transform Elle. He just had to keep trying.


End file.
